The Dream Machine

A short-story written by Alejandro Barco. Contemporary, fiction, horror. Translated from Spanish by Alejandro Barco and Cecilia M�rquez. Contemporary, fiction, horror.

The Dream Machine

Like every other night before, the door automatically closed while my brother, the scientist, approached me to have our usual conversation.  This time, he confronted me with determination, but the look in his eyes did not allow a dialogue.  At some point we began a slow and informative conversation and after a while all things became clear to me.  According to him, his scientific proyect was a success and nothing  was improvised.  In fact, he spoke to me about experimenting more under strict supervision, I remember he used the words “top secret” to definitely get my naive approval.  Through meticulous procedure in his tasks, my brother further excelled in many scientific fields.  So many recognitions and professional awards slowly changed him and converted him to a manipulative person, his thoughts and actions gave him away as a perfectionist and anxious individual. 

He was an obsessed man who liked to count the components of long uncomprehensible formulas and every morning count his steps to go to his car and if the number of steps were not pair, he opened the passenger door first.  My brother’s behavior was not sick or crazy, it was absolute order and conviction.  I realized that those actions were attitudes reserved only for some of the ‘genious,’ incapable to withdraw from so much knowledge.  His professional ethic was always impeccable, but when investigators had doubts about his ways he was always protected by the elite groups.  That night he spoke to me a swirl of words to explain what happened to me, in fact, his explanation resumed in 3 words:  The Dream Machine.  I fell asleep as I was listening to his fancy and empty words.  Nothing new really, after all, nothing was stimulating to me anymore, nothing surprised me.  Few hours later, the day light would delineate another day of work teaching Math. 

As usual, I woke up on my right foot, I changed and had a quick breakfast before heading to Belgrano High School.  I parked my car and walked to the classroom thus begining my daily agony in front of my students.  The student’s quiet voices allowed me to hear in my computer the local radio commenting about the imminent catastrophe this city is to face if being bombarded.  Those famous and insane dream machines made our city an easy target for the enemy, thus convicting most people to live in the humid underground.  That particular morning a fast whistle of one of thirteen mini-atomic bombs exploded on the school quad.  The fierce violence unfolded panic everywhere while the underground prayed for the end of the chaos.  Terrified and deeply anguished I drove in search of my kids Flavia and Charles while I listened to the devastating news in the radio.  I only drove 4 blocks, which were populated by bloodstained people who were driven crazy by an inevitable terrorist attack.  I expected the worst and I was determined to confront it. 

I ran 23 blocks at a meteoric speed until I got to the place where my kids were watched by their grandma.  The city was involved in a deafening sound of car alarms and ambulance sirens, the sky did not exist above the white and black smoke.  I took 4 jumps on the stairs to get to the third floor, then I knocked at the door of apartment 3G and...I waited an eternity.  An old lady opened the door.  From her skinny purple lips I heard nonsense and illogical words.  I panicked immediately after her scraped voice articulated she did not know me.  She was sitting in an old sofa telling me that her husband also had an unique case of Alzheimer.  I was desperate and out of control, bitching about this incoherent situation. 

I was confused and disconnected of my surroundings for a minute but quickly I was able to locate a police patrol.  I walked up to the young police officer and he proceeded to take my personal info in no hurry as if the city’s chaos would allow such a waste of time.  I noticed the database in his computer did not register my address when suddenly his face and voice quickly came to my mind.  I realized he was an acquaintance from my neighborhood, but he did not seem to recognize me.  He was willing to help me out and intended to calm me down telling me there were no reports of dead children in the hospitals and the anti-missile system was already activated to protect the city from further attacks.  I got in the police patrol, we did not say much to each other.  I recall everything was being said by the walkie-talkie and the police radio system.  He wanted to make sure he was heading to the right address so he asked me for the intersection streets of my place.

-          “I live on 1324 Carlos Berg Avenue, across street is Rivadavia Blvd” – I said.

-          “Repeat please, what did you say?” – the police demanded.  He seemed skeptical about what I have said.

-          “My house is at the corner of Carlos Berg and Rivadavia.” – I restated.

-          “That can’t be, sir.  I’ve lived there for thirteen years and I know there is no such intersection.” 

-          “Remember Salome the ‘easy blondie’?  She lived in the house next to mine.” – At this point, I tried to establish a common ground, if that was possible. 

-          “Of course, how could I forget ... but there is something weird here.” – the officer said while looking at the computer screen.

-     “Well officer, I don’t know what to tell you.  I live there, exactly where I told you.  May be you are confused.  It’s probably been a long day for you and for me.”  – I told him, in disbelief by the situation.

After 5 minutes, the police officer handcuffed me and started to read my rights.  He also read code 96 from article 178c, an exclusive procedure police officers would follow for residents of this city.  My rumbling and light-speed lunge by the streets, the phone call the police received from the forgetful old lady, and my unmatching address with public records, were enough reasons for the young officer to start suspecting me as dangerous, thus it made sense to the police officer to put me in jail. 

I woke up observing the white blueish ceiling painted with beautiful angel figures.  I heard melodies on my memory, commentaries, crying, regrets of family members and friends.  My body lied in a coffin, but my senses were alive, I was unable to comprehend and very much confused.  I thought I was dead.  I opened my eyes and I arose from the coffin while the people surrounding me fainted before such a frightening and divine event.  I got out of that elegant coffin to run in search of my kids Flavia and Charles.  I saw them weeping as they hugged each other to empower themselves.  They could not fully understand what they saw and the reality in front of their eyes.  His mother quickly cross herself and told them something, she hugged them and swiftly took them away from the church.  Inside that crazy world, the priest prayed intensely to honor the ‘miracle’ that just happened with me.  Meanwhile, I felt irrational, I was astounded.  Some people passed me a glass of water and as I had my first sip I went in and out my right state of mind...I was in and out my entire body, which at this eerie moment could endure tragedy and desolation.  Like a drop of water that overflows a fountain, my entire body felt full of life as if for the first time, but overwhelmed with emotions it succumbed slowly to nothingness.  While I was never able to get out of that episode, the bombarding against the city finally ended. 

The image of my brother spread throughout the world as he was now recognized as an honorable peace maker through his knowledge of human-mind.  All had happened while his assistants put me, one more time, on the metallic bed inside that cabin of double iron walls, perfectly sealed and secretly kept from the world. 

Always in search of my happiness I dreamt of my past, but in my veins I sensed I was a slave of that diabolical machinery that trapped and possessed me with no pity.  I was a victim of that wretched machine, home to labyrinthical cables and immoral hard drive circuits.  Damn machinery ...!  Damn metallic door that locks before my eyes and anticipates dreams with no control, twisted with unexpected nightmares ..., damn my own blood who now approaches me to have the same conversation, all over again.

ALEJANDRO BARCO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

English is not my first language. You may find some grammar errors. Do not hesitate to contact me!